


strength of winter's bones

by blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfyre/pseuds/blackfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griff smiles, “and I am sure you rise above that sordid reputation, my lady. A bastard girl with looks so pure must have some lady qualities in her heart.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she matches his steps, turning sideways to face him as she grasps at the branches as the hill steepened, “mayhaps, but what would a Stone know of being a lady? We have not time for such pursuits, not when hedge knights poke us with their swords.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	strength of winter's bones

**Author's Note:**

> there is a dearth of sansa/aegon fic and oh, the possibilities this pairing has.

It is still winter, snow knee-deep on the Mountain Road, fresh and wet, and when she twists her head, Griff can almost see a glimmer of red beneath the chestnut. A bit of color in the world, besides grey and white and black and brown and bleakness.

He came upon her while hunting with his loyal companion, the one still able to move, hunting for the fun, not for hunger rising in his belly. She was rubbing her hands, a large and ill-fitting cloak upon her shoulders, and she had a look of fright upon her before her features cooled. That is why he walked up to her, bold and fearless, a sword at his hip, and a glean in his eyes. “I am Griff the sellsword, my lady.”

He reaches out to grab her wrist and she dances out of his grasp, “I am no lady,” a twirling step, “And why would a sellsword be wearing such rich clothing?” she smirks, nimble on her feet as she starts up the valley to rejoin the Mountain Road.  


He grins back, baring his teeth, “I killed a very rich man for them. And since I gave you my name, surely you will give me your sweet name?”

“Alayne Stone,” she inclines her head, incisors white against her pink lips, dancing towards him. “Oh, he must have been a very rich man,” she proclaims, close enough to run her fingers down his cloak, “Sable. I am glad this man was the same height and size as you. It fits you well.”

“Luck indeed,” and oh, what a fine tongue she has. He was not used to be questioned so, not used to such a fine and witty tongue, “Are you like this with all the men you meet on the road?” She was quite pretty - clear blue eyes, good teeth, thick and healthy hair (although in a bit of a disarray), her gloved hands stained dark brown, her cheeks flushed pink by the cold.

“Not all men,” and she steps away, pulling the cloak tighter around her as she starts up the hill. “but you know how bastard girls are.”  


Her tone is playful, her lips smiling but there is something steely in her gaze, a hardness in her eyes. Her mind flashes to the pole boat, to games of cyvasse with the Imp, the calculated glint as he captured another piece. _She is playing with me_ , he realizes, “and I am sure you rise above that sordid reputation, my lady. A bastard girl with looks so pure must have some lady qualities in her heart.”  


“Oh,” she matches his steps, turning sideways to face him as she grasps at the branches as the hill steepened, “mayhaps, but what would a Stone know of being a lady? We have not time for such pursuits, not when hedge knights poke us with their swords.”

He puffs air, thighs working to propel him higher, looking at her arms, seeing if the gloves would slip low and he’d catch a glimpse of her wrists. Would her skin be soft or calloused? “And how do you handle such men? Do you escape them with your natural coyness and flattery? With which you use your lips but mayhaps not your words?”

Alayne lets out a playful gasp of shock, “No, my dear sellsword. The last hedge knight who took me for his new sheath found out that he can fall to his own blade. A knight who cannot keep his own sword is a dreadful sort.”

They have now reached the top of the hill, the mountain road spilling before them, the Gates of the Moon high in the distance. Before they could reach the road, Griff pulls her to him and backs her against a tree. She is shaking but her hand drifts to her hip, a dagger gleaming bright in the spotted sunrays through the clouds.

Griff steps closer, whispering against her ear, “I’d ask for a lady’s favor,” tracing her neck and jaw with the edge of his finger.

She breaths against his neck and whispers softly, “And I am no lady. And there are no true knights.”

“As you say,” he nuzzles her jawline before covering her lips with his own.

Her mouth opened hesitantly, a soft sign rising out of her pink lips and Griff pushes her hard against the tree, tongue pushing against hers, his hands exploring her side and her breasts through the clothes. He shoves a knee between her legs and groans into her throat as he kisses her soft neck. Griff sees and feels nothing but her and that is why he is surprised by the cold tip of her dagger at his neck.

She turns the tip slightly and he feels the pinpoint pain, the warm blood prick at his neck. Alayne pushes him away, starting off the road and he rubs his neck, his gloves staining brown, noticing that her dagger is not completely clean. Griff starts after her, catching up to her in ten strides. She had not drawn much; Alayne was not looking for blood, but surprise and control.

The Gates of the Moon is visible from here and Griff can see the riders coming down, the stripes of the blue and white and the falcon-moon of House Arryn. Alayne and Griff do not speak, the walk through the new, mostly unbroken snow hard on their legs and lungs. Already, his spun reality is crashing down and he must don his true self once more. 

The riders approach them, Ser Lothar Brune at the head and he addresses the girl before him. “My lady, are you safe and well?”  
Alayne glances over at him, before addressing Ser Lothar, “As well as can be expected. I am in good health and spirits, ser, and have suffered no harm.”

His own man, trailing as his watcher in the trees off the road, emerges with their mounts, and their quiet party rides into the Gates of the Moon. The news comes later that evening – the Lords Declarant, the whole lot of them ruling as Regents for little lord Robert – will agree to his terms, will call him King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, will submit the Vale of Arryn to the glory of the Targaryens once more. If.

If he weds the Lady Sansa of House Stark, the heir of Winterfell and the North, cousin to Lord Robert Arryn, the heir of Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, the last surviving child of Lord Eddard Stark, the girl who Lady Lysa spurred from King’s Landing and delivered her here and held her safe and hidden. The Lady Sansa, who in one fell swoop, would bring him the allegiance of three kingdoms, who was said to be young and fair and a true lady in all respects. _A survivor, the last of her family, like me_ , Aegon muses.

They promise him he will see her at the feast, the grandest feast to celebrate the Targaryen rebirth, Aegon the Conqueror come again.

He meets her at last, her dressed in grey and white of her house, a silver direwolf brooch at her neck, the red hair flaming against the bleakness of winter. She smiles truly, showing her teeth, the incisors sharp and wolfish, and she sounds of the North, the illusion of fragility falling away to reveal the strength of winter’s bones, the ones that carry the frost and the snow and bear the wind and the chill, the ones that do not thaw in spring but remain whole and strong and true. “My Queen,” he greets her, and her face is of stone, of survival, of the promise of wolves and dragons come again to reclaim their thrones.


End file.
